


To Want Nothing But Patience

by felix814



Category: Northanger Abbey - Jane Austen
Genre: Conversations, F/M, Family, Gen, Loneliness, Regency, Solitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 16:25:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix814/pseuds/felix814
Summary: Eleanor is a loving sister.





	To Want Nothing But Patience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaisyNinjaGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyNinjaGirl/gifts).



Eleanor sat in her chair next to the fire, with a book open in her hand, and her mind restlessly dwelling on other things. There was a certain languor in the household. The general had been very busy lately in managing some trifling problem with the hothouses, and had frequently been out of doors, careless of the chilly weather. He might be there now, although rain had been falling steadily for the past hour and a half, quite preventing her from taking her afternoon walk in the gardens. The house was very silent. 

Absently, her thoughts strayed back to the visit she had received from Henry several days ago. He had appeared his usual light-hearted self, but something in the studied nature of his calm manner had been troubling to Eleanor. She wished that Mr Harlow had not left the district. Of course, his father’s properties in Jamaica required some management, and though she had not known George Harlow well, the several occasions on which she had seen him in Henry’s drawing-room at Woodston had given her the impression of an energetic, active person. No doubt he had found life in this rural fastness somewhat dull. And now, without his good friend, Henry must be finding it dull also. 

It was easy to see that his neighbourhood was rather lacking in company. It was not quite as isolated as the environs of Northanger -- or, not as isolated as I find it, Eleanor reminded herself, thinking of the several large families in the area whom her father felt it not proper to visit -- but there was a limited supply of those intelligent, conversable men who made the best company. And none, she feared, who could easily enjoy Henry’s odd sense of humour. 

It would be something, she decided wistfully, to have a companion to laugh with. 

Some little noises of everyday work drifted in from the hall, and made Eleanor startle a little. What a piece of nonsense it was, to waste the day in speculation. Perhaps the fire was too warm, making her drowsy and distracted. She should attend to her book. 

With resolution, Eleanor redirected her eyes to the page to read calmly and with lukewarm interest for another quarter of an hour. A door shut, some way down the hall. She heard steps passing her room; two of the maidservants, probably carrying the linen to the housekeeper’s room. They were whispering to each other, although their voices were not audible enough to be heard. The women had walked past her room and were almost to the door when one of them laughed suddenly, loud and bright in the empty stillness of the afternoon air. It was stifled at once, and they were gone. 

Eleanor found that she was gripping the arm of her chair. The laughter had grated on her in an unpleasant way that she could not identify, and she was glad that the general had not been by to hear it. He did not like the servants to raise any noise in his household. Her breath was coming a little fast -- why on earth? She must have the headache, to be so irritable. 

The window looking out into the courtyard was not often opened, and resisted a little under her hand, but she managed to pull it free. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the frame and breathed in the cold, damp atmosphere. The fire had been too hot. And she didn’t much like her book; it was a volume purporting to be a history of the early Tudors, but the current chapter seemed to be mainly a sermon on the dangers of hasty speech. _Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise: and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding_. It was not a lesson which Eleanor felt herself to be in much need of.

Henry, however. She smiled, feeling her slight malaise seeping away, as she considered some of the speeches he had made on her last visit to Woodston, which may have shown him a man of learning and wit but not, she thought, particularly wise. What he had said to Colonel Ashby! That man had been provoking, to be sure, and Henry’s response so amusing. It was a pity none of his neighbours had seen the humour in it. They liked him, she knew, and valued his energy as curate, after the last man in the position had proved himself so lacking in responsibility. But none of them could understand his humour. 

She sighed. In such company, it was folly indeed to speak so freely. She looked out of the window -- still raining, still unfit weather for walking -- and unwillingly thought for the thousandth time that Henry should not have accepted the curacy at Woodston. That he had done so for her sake, alone.

Ridiculous! It was a perfectly good living, and, as witty as he could be on the subject of clerical abuses, she knew Henry to have a sincere enthusiasm for the church and its role in society. It would be stupid, as well as self-indulgent, to imagine Henry making a gallant sacrifice only to _keep her company_ when --- when clearly Frederick had shown himself determined to run as fast and far from Northanger and their father’s temper as was possible. 

Leaning against the sill, Eleanor breathed quietly for several minutes. She was fit for nothing useful today, that was obvious. She should -- 

A curricle was coming through the gate. The rain had slackened a little without her noticing, and the driver appeared merely damp and not soaked to the skin. He jumped down, and began striding towards her side of the house, conversing briefly with the stablemen about the horses. He looked up. 

“Henry!”

He laughed, raising his hand to his hat and elegantly bowing. “What a picture! You look like Marianna at the window of her moated grange.”

Ignoring this -- somewhat ignoble -- comparison, Eleanor called back in surprise: “But I thought we shouldn’t see you until Wednesday! Has something happened?”

He came closer, moving promptly, and with an air of suppressed excitement. “Our father sent me a note this morning, and fortunately I was able to finish my work earlier than expected. Did he not tell you of his plan?”

She was quite bewildered. She had seen the general for but a moment this morning, before he had departed to his study with his correspondence. He had not spoken to her. Below the window, Henry was not waiting for her response.

“I have only the felicity of spending but two days with you, my sister, while we make preparations, and then I am off again to bespeak us lodgings at -- can you guess?”

She could only smile and shake her head.

“Eleanor -- we are going to Bath!”

*****

The door opened and Henry strolled in with a cheerful word of greeting and: “I am here to discharge a commission from Miss Morland.”

Eleanor sat up with a startled jerk. “Indeed! You saw her tonight? Pray tell me that you conveyed my sincere apologies and regrets -- the disgraceful way in which she was denied entry to the house this morning -- I cannot imagine what she might have thought --”

“Yes, yes,” said Henry impatiently. “That was all explained, if I may say so, with peculiar delicacy and charm by your own brother, and I know you will not be so thankless as to question my method of delivering your apologies.”

“Well,” Eleanor attempted to temporize, “you do not always, Henry, express yourself with the clearest language, especially when you are trying to be funny.”

“What ingratitude!” he protested, settling himself into the chair next to hers and languidly picking up several items from the table to no discernible purpose. “When I have sacrificed my own time and leisure in bearing your regrets -- described in perfect clarity of language your vexation with the unlucky circumstance -- really, my dear sister.”

Apparently he had spent some time in reassuring Catherine that no incivility had been intended. Relaxing back into the chair, she felt all at once more comfortable and considered that Catherine, of all other girls of their acquaintance, would be particularly unlikely to read Henry’s odd manners as rude or unkind.

Provocatively, she replied: “I am sorry you were put to so much trouble. But surely it was not altogether unpleasant to spend a half hour in conversation with Miss Morland?”

“As to that -- but Eleanor, you make me forget to what purpose I speak; do you not wish to know what the lady in question said about her own conduct yesterday? You can hardly imagine that she did not take her own share in the conversation -- and it is an amusing story, if I may tell it without interruptions.”

She did not interrupt. Instead, she sat, and smiled, and listened, and thought with quiet amusement that she had rarely seen her brother so animated, after an evening with their father. He appeared almost to have caught the general’s trick of pacing the room, for he could hardly seem to remain still, but restlessly moved his leg and tapped his fingers upon the armrest, expressing an inner tension that was belied by the cool insouciance in his face. 

“We entered late, you know -- our father being detained by some acquaintance -- and once seated I saw her in the box across the theatre.” Redistributing himself in the chair, he then added abruptly, and with what Eleanor perceived as a somewhat conscious diffidence. “Sitting with Mrs Allen and John Thorpe, who, you will understand, Eleanor, to be the _villain_ of the piece.”

Eleanor recognized that Henry was abandoning social detachment for a more familiar nonsensically melodramatic style, and settled back more comfortably, willing to be entertained.

“You remember that we saw Miss Morland look back at us, when she drove off yesterday? Her curricle had just passed us on the pavement, with Thorpe sitting beside her.”

She remembered this, and too, how her own confusion and chagrin at Catherine’s failing to keep their appointment had been eclipsed by Henry’s uncharacteristically pettish disappointment.

“You were quite cross,” she replied sweetly.

Henry stopped playing with the teacup in his hands and sat bolt upright. “Cross!” he ejaculated. “Not I, indeed!”

“Well you seemed so to me. Don’t you recall, that you kicked the loose cobblestone on the street, once their curricle had passed the corner?”

He blushed, and looked a little silly.

“The stone flew right across the street and nearly under the hooves of that horse,” she continued pleasantly.

“Eleanor --”

“And I think you must have hurt your foot, for you limped a little walking back to the pump-room --although,” assuming for a moment a graver expression, “I believe you did not wish it thought of, as you spent the rest of the walk talking loudly and to very little purpose of the recent upset in parliament.” 

He bent forwards in his chair and, taking her hands, called her his dear nodcock and forbade her from teasing him any further. 

“You are interrupting my story,” he continued reproachfully, embarrassed but smiling. “I was telling you of seeing Miss Morland at the play.” 

Without further interruption from her, he went on to describe how Catherine had, upon perceiving him in the theatre, cast him looks of extremely pitiable suffering; on his gallantly rescuing her from distress by joining her in the box, she had lamented over the lost walk and begged him to carry all her apologies to his sister. He had learned that she had not left them the previous day on purpose, but had been carried off by John Thorpe to parts unknown and had only with the utmost difficulty strived to make her way back to Bath. Heroically disclaiming all the distress which such an adventure must have imposed on her, her only concern had been for the slight committed against Eleanor, whom she knew was righteously outraged. Naturally, he had mended all potential discord between the ladies much more skilfully than they might have managed themselves, had Eleanor been present, and the evening had closed with perfect harmony on both sides: in effect, it was a piece of knight-errantry that Eleanor would have been privileged to have witnessed.

Discounting the greater part of this, and trusting that Henry had, in fact, behaved to Catherine like a respectable gentleman, Eleanor smiled throughout the recital. When it was over, the siblings remained comfortably in the room for another half hour, exchanging remarks about the play Henry had seen, and the possibility of attending another on Tuesday next. By this point Eleanor was thinking of bed, and had just been about to rise and gather her things when Henry stretched out his legs, coughed, scratched the back of his neck and said, somewhat awkwardly,

“What do you think of her?”

There was only one response which Eleanor felt qualified to give. “I know her but very little, as of yet, although I do desire to make her better acquaintance. Really, Henry, I can hardly tell.”

He nodded, a little more serious than he had been all evening. “She surprised me,” he said lightly. 

Eleanor wondered, and waited patiently. 

“My conduct -- it was not what it should have been. I think I _was_ cross, Eleanor, and was ungentlemanly enough to let her see it, when we saw each other across the theatre.”

He was silent a moment, and then laughed, brief and rueful. “She challenged me with it! ‘Mr Tilney,’ she said, looking grave, ‘why were you so ready to take offence? So much less generous than your sister?’ And I was -- I admit it -- ungenerous.”

Eleanor thought about her brother’s dislike of criticism, and how silent and stiff he became under the rebukes of their father, how he would turn off anything into a joke, a game, rather than be reminded of his own wrong-doing.

“I must learn better manners from you, I see,” he continued, smiling down at her, but retaining that thoughtfulness.

And could sweet blushing Catherine look gravely at Henry, and speak such good sense? The charm which could disarm most critics less impervious than their father was not, apparently, all-conquering in this case. Eleanor considered: she is charmed by him, but not blind to his faults. This is a hopeful beginning. 

*****

Eleanor entered her bedroom and immediately had to stifle an exclamation. A man was standing in front of her open closet, his back to her.

“Henry. Were you looking for me in the closet?”

He turned and glanced at her, sheepish and disgruntled. “I was searching through your supply of novels; Eleanor, did you not bring the _Humphrey Clinker_ volumes with you from Northanger?”

“I regret that I did not,” said Eleanor mildly. 

“That is unfortunate -- unfortunate and strangely unlike you, my dear sister. I had been used to depend on your prudence in securing what was necessary.”

“And since there are no means for you to obtain a copy of this popular book in _Bath_ , with its circulating libraries and easy command of fashionable literature, you must of course despair.”

“It appears I must.” 

He spoke lightly, but Eleanor was quick to perceive the tension underlying his demeanour. What was wrong? He had seemed happy earlier, on their quitting Catherine after the morning walk. Indeed, he had laughed so long at her comments on the fantastical plot of her latest Gothic novel, that Eleanor had been a little concerned of their exciting attention from a passer-by. 

“If not the Smollett -- and on second thoughts, that kind of satire may not be quite in her line -- perhaps the Lambs’ _Shakespeare Tales_? No, you thought it insipid as I recall, and I bow to your judgment in this matter -- _Waverley_? Has she read it yet?”

Eleanor did not know, and gave a non-committal answer, frowning inwardly. This enthusiasm for selecting better reading material for Catherine was evidently not the main reason why he should have invaded her room. 

Downstairs, a voice was briefly heard raised in an expression of anger. Upstairs, the siblings looked at each other in a moment of speaking silence. Downstairs, a door slammed. Upstairs, Henry began to languidly compare the merits of Walter Scott to various continental authors. Eleanor listened, and quietly resolved on keeping Henry in her room at least until the hour of dressing for dinner. It would occasion some comment from their father, but that was unavoidable.

The voice downstairs -- their father’s -- was briefly raised loudly enough for them to perceive the word “insolence!” before it dropped into indistinctness. Henry’s conversation faltered a little before resuming. The presence of their elder brother was without doubt causing some friction in the household. Eleanor wondered what scene had passed between him and Henry to make her brother seek refuge in her room, and longed to stroke his cheek as she had been allowed to do when they were children.

“What about _Belinda_?” she asked instead, settling herself into one of the chairs beside the bed and tacitly inviting Henry to take a seat. 

He did so, looking a little wryly conscious but also, she thought, relieved. 

“I am sure it would be unexceptional to Miss Morland, although there is something I dislike about the ending of that novel. Something in Belinda’s behaviour to Mr Hervey when she is with the Percival family . . . “

He was nodding. “I believe I know the root of your dislike, and what is more, can put a name to it. She is reserved. Far too reserved than a person in love can or should be. That she should be willing to entertain the -- no doubt rational and wise -- course of marrying Mr Vincent, shows her unpleasantly pragmatic.”

Privately, Eleanor considered that Henry had not held such a romantic point of view when he had first read the novel. Out loud she said, “Your accusation is not entirely fair. Mrs Edgeworth makes it clear throughout, that Belinda, while feeling deeply for Clarence Hervey, is determined to act on principle. Naturally she refuses to show openly her love for a man whom she has reason to believe will never be hers.”

Henry protested, and continued arguing the point. She responded when appropriate, but, despite her genuine interest in the conversation and in keeping Henry entertained, was conscious of uncomfortable feelings that she would have preferred to indulge in private. Henry did not give enough allowance for the pressing weight of these emotions on a woman when circumstances dictated that it must be kept under strict control. _She_ knew -- but that was something not to be thought of. Not at this moment.

She spoke. “I do wonder at your impertinence, Henry. You began by interrupting me when I was attempting to explain my point. Then you interposed your own, very different, opinion, and had the audacity to claim it for mine, thinking, I must suppose, that I do not know my own mind but must submit to your judgment.”

“Not my judgment,” he said smiling. “To my superior arguments you must concede something, however. Belinda’s valuing principle over affection -- as it says in the book, ‘following her principles to the last gasp’! -- is what makes her both unamiable to the reader and a non-natural subject, incapable of inspiring sympathy.”

“You are too severe!”

He was laughing now, clearly prepared to continue the debate into the realm of nonsense. “True affection, which cannot help but be met with its like -- that is seen in a heroine’s blushes, and sighs, and involuntary starts of emotion --”

“Such as fainting, perhaps, into the hero’s arms?”

“--which may include fainting spells, total inability to speak, think or breathe while in company with the adored object, composition of excessively long and florid poetry--”

“Or running down the street, heedless of convention, in order to maintain a stolen appointment with the ‘adored object’ -- and his sister.”

He stared, blushed, and seemed unable to answer. Eleanor felt a little sorry, but also disinclined to pretend any further that they were talking about anybody but Catherine Morland. She waited.

Henry took a breath, and visibly collected himself. “Yes,” he said quietly. “A woman who is unafraid to love, and does not attempt to conceal it. You cannot deny there is an -- irresistible attraction, in such behaviour. What man could prefer artfulness or calculation?”

Eleanor recollected the ball some nights previous, just after Frederick had arrived. She had been separated in the dancing from Henry and Catherine, but had heard later of Frederick’s soliciting Miss Thorpe to dance, and being accepted. Catherine had been confused and hurt by her friend’s acquiescence and subsequent flirtations. These were unfamiliar arts to her, certainly. 

“You need not despair of finding many women who employ such tricks,” she acknowledged, “but there are as many, or even more, with honest affections and open hearts. I believe there are several within our acquaintance.”

Henry made an abrupt gesture with his hand, as if brushing away her last remark. “I begin to feel,” he answered seriously, “or may have felt for some time, I cannot tell -- that there are not so very many women who -- in short, that there may be one who, for causes both rational and irrational, I may cherish above all others.”

He looked exceedingly embarrassed to have made even so convoluted a declaration. Eleanor was about to explore this interesting subject with all the delicacy at her command, when a rapping at the door brought in the flustered Sarah. She looked distressed, begging pardon, but saying that the general wished to speak to them, and could they come down to the parlour? The brother and sister had no choice but to rise and obey. 

No matter, thought Eleanor. There will be time enough later for a more prolonged discussion.

The general was angry, and sulky, and to the point. “I find that since Colonel Somerset will not, after all, be joining his usual party in Bath, and because I have some pressing business to return to: Henry, Eleanor, I am decided on leaving Bath within the week.” He nodded decisively, as if that put an end to the matter, and strode out of the room. 

Eleanor could not look at henry. She was conscious of an unreasoning anger building in her body and constricting her throat. She could not speak. There was nothing to say. 

*****

“I have frequently thought,” remarked Henry, reclining comfortably on the chaise beneath the window, “that the clergy should employ a far greater degree of topical matter, in their addresses to the congregation.”

The two women glanced at each other, smiling. Catherine, as usual, was the first to respond.

“But what do you mean, Mr Tilney? How should they do so?”

“Why,” he replied lightly, “by taking for his subject not merely the general principles of good and evil, right and wrong, the universal doctrines of the church and their applicability to the human soul -- but also the everyday trials and tribulations of his flock.”

“And so he does,” enjoined Catherine warmly. “At least, my father does so -- whenever he feels that a particular lesson is called for. There was one occasion, only last year, after a theft from Mr Hodges’s shop. Only a few things were taken; I believe it was a jar of marmalade and some ribbon. But the perpetrators not being caught, my father made a special point of giving a sermon that Sunday on the text of Luke chapter nineteen, on Zacchaeus, you know.”

“That is not quite what I had in mind, although it sounds very wise. But we clergymen should not expect the good fortune of a theft under our noses every week, to satisfy the merit of giving such a pointed lesson from the pulpit. When there are no particular iniquities to discuss, I think it is still our duty to find a subject of interest to everyone.”

Catherine looked all attentive inquiry. Eleanor, hunting for a loose thread in her embroidery, thought with relief that it was very pleasant to have a companion so able and willing to give Henry all these opportunities to pontificate.

“What I am thinking of,” he continued, with relaxed good humour, “is a subject that occupies the majority of the congregation for the greatest part of the time and on which there exist a wide variety of opinions. It is a fruitful subject, you understand, and will supply the beleaguered curate, or I dare say, the bishop, with the ability to catch and maintain the avid attention of his hearers -- in short, dear ladies, it is ‘Dress’.”

“Dress?” asked Catherine doubtfully.

“Of course, Miss Morland! Consider the demographics of the average congregation; it tends to include far more women than men, does it not?”

She assented, though still looking unconvinced. “I have not noticed so considerable a disparity,” Eleanor remarked mildly. 

“Then you have not been attending. It is known that women live to a more prolonged age than men, due to the great rigour and strain which men are made to undergo in this life.”

The women appeared skeptical. Eleanor looked pointedly at where Henry was lazily reclining in the chaise with his feet on the ottoman and a bowl of fruit within reach of his fingers. He went on. 

“And women are, of course, possessed of a higher moral character than men, in the general way. Where a man might, disdaining the sweet blessings of the Sabbath duty, remain in the house or field, a woman will put aside all household cares, brave any weather, and make every effort to maintain her place in the congregation.”

Her brow slightly furrowed, Catherine seemed as if she wanted to contest this point, but Henry sailed unconcernedly on. “And given that there is no subject more interesting to women than their dress -- the nice degree of decoration on their bonnets, the careful consideration between the spotted, the plaid, the sprigged, or the plain muslin, and a hundred other considerations, it would be folly for the clergyman not to take advantage of this proclivity, and, on a given Sunday, spend three quarters of his time cautioning his female parishioners on the wisest colours they could choose for their gowns.”

“But what is the virtue in such a discussion, Mr Tilney?” asked Catherine, a little hotly. 

“Why, that having claimed their attention, and shown himself, by engaging them equally on such matters, to be a man of sense, he might employ some useful moral parables -- to recommend the virtue of modesty, for example, by pointing out the foolishness of over-trimming a pelisse, or to caution against the vice of an over-hasty temper, by noting that many a lady has quite spoilt her hat by flinging it carelessly upon the floor. Would not this be a valuable mode of discourse?”

Catherine was silent. Eleanor, who had long been accustomed to such speeches from Henry, critically examined her needle and answered without looking at him: “Yes, certainly, if your object is to convince everyone that you have a profound contempt for women. Unless you think an obsession with dress is compatible with the ‘higher moral character’ you ascribe to our sex?”

He was about to reply, but was checked by Catherine herself speaking up in a diffident, but clear voice. “It is a grave fault in anyone, and much more so in a man of the church, I believe, to address himself solely to the weakest aspects of another person -- even if they are, I dare say, very silly.”

Eleanor thought of Mrs Allen, and apprehended that Catherine might be thinking of her too.

“Is this not how goodness is achieved, by singling out such weaknesses for correction?” Henry asked mildly. 

Eleanor paused in her work, glancing between them both. They were not looking at her, but held each other’s eyes steadily. It is as if I were not in the room at all, she thought. If I left, would they notice?

Catherine was blushing by this time, but she did not look away from Henry. “I have always thought that it is of more importance -- and surely of more benefit -- to address and celebrate those aspects of our friends and neighbours which are truly good. That it may be unkind to think too much about the foibles of other people.”

Henry was still gazing at her softly. 

“We are all weak in one manner or another,” Catherine finished, and finally dropped her eyes from his, blushing more than ever. 

Eleanor consciously focused her attention back onto her work, and thought deliberately about the possibility of taking another walk in the gardens today, the dinner they were to have, and whether Jacob had cleared the lawn of branches after last night’s storm. In another part of the room, not that far from her, the other two were murmuring softly about something which she couldn’t make out. Henry’s voice was gentle, Catherine’s becoming less hesitant with every word. Sooner or later they would remember her presence and bring her into a more general conversation. For now, Eleanor was content to sit quietly with her embroidery and imagine that this was something Henry would not have to give up. 

*****

Eleanor put another stitch into the fabric and examined it critically in the bright summer sunshine from the window. It was precise and even. Perhaps if she worked at it for another half hour, the shawl would be finished by the next day’s afternoon.

Her eyes went to the clock. It was earlier than she had thought; she could even give another hour to the task. Or -- letting the fabric drop into her lap with some little irritation -- she could practice on the pianoforte. Or read another chapter of the _Annals_ of the Empire. The day was bright and fair; perhaps she could select some blooms from the garden and arrange them in the sitting-room vases. For some reason that room had been looking sad and shabby of late. It might even be improved by new covers for the chairs; she could speak to the housekeeper about it --

No. Better not. Father was in no humour at present to brook any interference, however mild, in the disposition of the household. Sighing inwardly, Eleanor recollected how splenetic he had been about the fish last night, and the sauce was usually a recipe he enjoyed. No, his temper was yet irritable, and remaining so with each week Henry did not come to Northanger in abject contrition. 

Her eyes went to the clock. Dinner this evening must be a good one. She knew that a dozen of the pippin apples had been reserved for a tart, which must surely be pleasing to him. If he enjoyed it, perhaps it could be contrived more often? Although the kitchens must have nearly run through the store from last autumn.

Guiltily, she recalled that several of cook’s apple tarts had been solicited by her more than five months previously, for the sake of her dear visitor last March. Possibly this had been reckless; certainly Catherine would have been happy with much less delicate fare. But her surprise and pleasure at the treat had been so enjoyable to see, and not less so Henry’s countenance, in pleasing his Catherine. He had laughed to hear her exclamations of delight, and been quite as busy as Eleanor -- or more so -- in requisitioning the kitchen for more sweets. 

How pleasant that time had been. Eleanor wished with half a heart that Henry was more or less content at Woodston, waiting for the parental approval which must, _must_ be forthcoming at some point. She sighed. At least he had his occupation, and was surely keeping busy in these fretful, uncertain months. 

Her eyes went to the clock. How strange it was that the time passed so slowly, exactly when one wished it to move more quickly than usual. And yet, what was there to look forward to, in the coming weeks? There were no engagements, no expeditions planned outside of Northanger, and no possibility of visitors until September at the earliest, when the Staffords would stay for a week on their way down to London. That was something. And for the time being, she had plenty -- plenty! -- to do, if she cared to do it, and refrain from useless daydreaming. 

With a little more decision, she picked up the neglected fabric and bent once again to her task. Certainly she would be able to finish the work by tomorrow and perhaps sooner. And there were those sonatas to practice, and the woodland delphiniums would be coming up soon, which would make her walks more pleasing. Really, she had so many comforts here.

Intent on her work, Eleanor at first did not notice the quick step along the hall, but before the general had thrown open the door she had perceived, and was startled at, the unaccustomed noise.

General Tilney strode into the room, looking -- she was even more surprised to discover -- sanguine, even cheerful, but his conversation was initially so abrupt and strange that she could hardly understand why it should be so.

“Eleanor! You will forgive my bursting upon you here -- when you know all, you will not mind it, I know -- this is a happy day for you, indeed! Really, such fortune, and something I never looked for, but -- my dear,” pacing a little before her, as he tended to do when in the grip of strong emotion, “do you know what letter I have received today?”

Bewildered, Eleanor attempted to gather her wits, and remember what letters her father had opened at breakfast. “From the Brookses?” she asked, doubtfully. “I had thought they only wrote to ask us to their party Wednesday next, and,” looking questioningly up into his face, “you had not seemed to like the invitation.”

“The Brookses! No, indeed, it was something of a presumption on their part, and while you know I am the last man to be unneighbourly, there is something particularly distasteful in the idea of mixing with that sort of company. But Eleanor,” familiarly reproachful, “this is nothing to the purpose. The letter I have here is quite different. Sadly it was overlooked at breakfast -- Field must be spoken to about his unconscionable habit of piling my correspondence into those untidy jumbles, he must -- and I have only now had leisure to look at it.”

Glancing down, Eleanor noticed that there was a letter in the general’s hand; it appeared to be a single sheet with not much writing. What on earth could be so significant to cause this material a change in spirits?

“The missive is from Mr Lewis, or, I should say, Mr Lewis _as was_ ,” he said in a meaningful tone, with a smile to Eleanor.

She felt a little breathless, but was not able to make any conjectures about what Edward Lewis might have communicated before her father was going on with his happy re-perusal of the letter.

“He has a most interesting event to relate; that is, a sad event,” assuming a momentarily serious countenance, “a most tragic affair -- there has been sickness in the house recently, with a most terrible consequence.”

Feeling unsteady and a little weak in her limbs, Eleanor quickly stood and stepped involuntarily towards him. “He is ill? Mr Lewis -- he has suffered no serious illness, I trust?” she asked faintly.

The general’s assumed gravity fractured into smiles. “Not he! But his elder brother, the Viscount, I am sorry to relate that he was carried off by a putrid fever these two weeks past. Poor man! My sympathies are all with the family, naturally. The, ahah, _new_ Viscount, writes of the sad event and what is more, Eleanor, he requests most charmingly and properly that he might pay his respects at Northanger within the next few weeks. He is prompt, you see!”

She felt too much to distinguish anything other than an intense relief that Edward was well, and that her father appeared so pleased to hear from him. He had not formerly been too fond of her friend -- he was going on.

“I like that!” the general was continuing happily. “Decisiveness in a character is the true mark of a great man. Certainly nothing can be absolutely settled as yet, with the family in mourning, but his early attention to you, Eleanor, is very good. Very good!”

“To me, sir?” she asked, uncertainly. Something of the significance of the letter was making her blush before she had consciously internalized its meaning, and she longed for a half minute to sit and examine the letter herself. Edward was going to come to Northanger? To see her?

“Yes, yes, it is all very promising.” He was not attending to her, but pacing over the room again and looking as if he were making elaborate plans. “I can easily accommodate the Viscount then; cook will have to be spoken to about the dinners, we must put forward everything of the best. I believe that I keep as good a table as any man in England, but we must do something better, for his lordship. Eleanor --”

She looked up blindly, not quite knowing what emotion was making her tremble, but alert for any displeasure in his voice.

“You will receive him with all kindness, I trust? I expect compliance from you, of course! And what better match could be found! If any man had the right to expect obedience from his children -- and I know,” he continued more softly, taking her hand for a quick, impulsive instant, “you have long been fond of each other. This is wonderful good fortune for you!”

She managed a smile. “Yes, father.”

He appeared to take her response as an answer to the whole, and relaxed into open cheer, beaming good-naturedly as he moved away and towards the door. “Good girl,” he said affectionately. “I must go speak to the servants. How much we will have to do!”

He was gone, and the door was shut. Eleanor stood for another moment and then sank back into her chair, now trembling more violently than before. It was like something from a fantasy. Edward would be here before long, and -- assuming her father was correct in interpreting his intentions -- he would ask her to be his wife. She would be his wife. Probably, even now, the general was ordering special preparation of the household. He would soon be in touch with his attorney. Everything had changed, all in an instant, and it was spinning on in a hurry without her -- without a moment to reflect, to think --

She took a deep breath once, and then again, and then, with the sun still streaming merrily through the clear glass window, and her embroidery lying in a forgotten heap on the floor, Eleanor started to gasp loudly, wildly, with tears in her eyes and she did not know -- she could not tell -- whether she was laughing or crying.


End file.
